


Fifty-Two Pickup

by Pargoletta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Jewish Steve Rogers, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6094564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less than a week after the fall of the Triskelion, Steve Rogers is released from the hospital.  Although his physical wounds are almost fully healed, other injuries need a bit more time, and some help from friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hero Games

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to this story! It wasn’t one that I was intending to write, but it was the one that happened. Steve’s been through a lot of stress in his life, much of it in the company of people who either don’t seem to notice or don’t seem to care. And yet, time after time, he manages to pick himself up and fight on. Here, he gets a bit of help in that general direction. Enjoy, and I’ll see you at the end.

  1. **Hero Games**



 

 “How does this feel?” The doctor’s hands moved gently around Steve’s right eye. The Winter Soldier – _Bucky_ – had hit him hard enough to crack bone, and Steve was fairly sure that he had overheard one doctor telling another that one more blow would have burst his eyeball. But that blow had never come, and instead, Steve had a single clear memory of _Bucky_ looking out at him in horror from the Winter Soldier’s eyes just before the world had shattered. It had been five days ago, by Sam’s count, which Steve trusted more than his own at this point. Only faint pink marks remained on Steve’s skin where the surgeons had repaired the damage from the Winter Soldier’s bullets. His face had no marks at all. 

“It’s a little tender,” he said. “But not really. Feels more like a memory of hurting than anything else.”

“Astonishing,” the doctor said. He removed his hands from Steve’s face and turned his attention to Steve’s chart. “Okay. I’m going to fill in some notes and send in a social worker in about an hour, but there really isn’t any reason for us to keep you any longer. I’ll order your discharge, and we’ll have someone stop by with the paperwork. If everything goes well, you should be going home tonight.” 

Steve stared at his hands in his lap, and laced his fingers tightly together to keep his hands from shaking. “Thanks,” he said, proud that his voice didn’t quiver. “Appreciate it.” 

The doctor barked out a small laugh. “Thank Erskine, too. I may have fixed up your bullet holes, but it was that serum that made sure that I had a living body to fix. Get some rest.” He patted Steve on the shoulder and left the room. 

Steve curled up in his hospital bed, grateful that he could finally do that, now that all of the wires and IV tubes had been removed. The clock on the wall said that it was seven-thirty in the morning. Sam would arrive at noon, as he had done for the past few days. There were a few books and magazines that the nurses had found for him, but Steve didn’t feel like reading. What he really wanted to do was to listen to the music that Sam brought and let the swaying rhythm of the drums and piano cradle him, so that the singer’s gentle voice could guide him out of the haze of pain that surrounded him. Sam would come at noon. Steve had less than five hours to wait. Pain flared in his gut, and he curled himself a little tighter around it. 

At seven fifty-three, the door to his room opened again, and a nurse entered, followed by an orderly in a black uniform carrying a tray. “Good morning,” the nurse said. “I notice you didn’t mark off any choices on the breakfast menu last night, so you’re getting the standard breakfast. Is that okay?” 

The standard breakfast was a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal, a container of limp fruit salad, and a cup of apple juice. It was bland and uninspiring, but then, Steve had had so little interest in eating over his hospital stay that he was sure that any effort put into the food would have been wasted anyway. “It’s fine,” he murmured. 

“Great. I’ll just change the date for you.” The nurse went to the white board that hung on the wall near Steve’s bed. She erased yesterday’s date, and wrote today’s, in large letters. “Your chart says that we’re looking at discharging you today.” 

“That’s what the doctor said.” The pain in Steve’s gut receded a little bit, and he unfolded his legs. “He said that a social worker’s going to come and see me.” 

The nurse nodded. “That’s just a routine thing. We do that to make sure that patients are prepared to understand their follow-up care and that they know what to do when they get home.” 

At the word “home,” Steve’s thoughts flew to his apartment. It hadn’t been all that long since he had been there, but it felt like a foreign country. In that apartment, he had been a loyal employee of SHIELD, respected leader of the STRIKE team, trusted by and trusting his country’s government. In that apartment, he had nursed the hole in his heart that Bucky had left behind in death, and had gingerly tried to reach out to the pretty, friendly nurse who lived next door. None of that was true any more, but the apartment was still there, waiting for him to return. “I’ll figure it out,” he said in the nurse’s general direction. 

“I’m sure you will.” She smiled at him. “Eat your breakfast, and the social worker will be in to see you soon.” 

Steve waved her out the door, and contemplated his oatmeal and fruit. He put a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, but lost interest in breakfast even before he had swallowed the first bite. 

The social worker arrived at nine-thirteen. Steve looked up when she entered, mildly interested. There had been a social worker in the neighborhood when he was a little boy. Her name was Miss Runcie, and she had had little glasses, and had worn her hair in a Louise Brooks bob in an effort to make a nod toward fashion while remaining practical. She always wore a greenish tweed jacket and skirt, and neither Steve nor Bucky had ever been able to tell whether she had a rack of identical outfits or if she simply wore the same clothes all the time. Miss Runcie had been friendly with Steve’s mother, and had often tried to enlist her help in various schemes to improve the health of the neighborhood kids, but somehow, her plans never seemed to materialize. 

The social worker who entered Steve’s room now had fluffy, shoulder-length hair and wore khaki trousers and a pink blouse, but there was something in the determinedly cheerful look on her face that brought Miss Runcie back to Steve’s mind. He caught himself looking for a closet to hide in before he remembered that, injuries aside, he was now the picture of rugged good health. 

“Good morning, Captain,” the social worker said. “I’m Susan Macleod, the social worker. I understand that the hospital will be discharging you today?”

“That’s what the doctor said, ma’am.” 

“Well, congratulations.” She smiled briefly, sat down in a chair near the bed, and arranged a clipboard on her lap. “I just have some routine questions for you. When you’re discharged, do you have a way to get back home?” 

Steve panicked for a brief moment when he couldn’t remember what had happened to his motorcycle. Then he recalled Sam’s visit the previous day and relaxed. “Sam Wilson – he visits every day – he said he’d drive me.” 

“Good.” Ms. Macleod ticked something off on her clipboard. “Once you’re home, are there people you can call if you need help?” 

“I think so.” Steve was almost certain that Natasha would at least know how to get help if he needed it, and he hoped that Sam might not mind the occasional call as well. 

“If you have an emergency after you get home, is there a hospital or a clinic that you could get to for care?” 

Steve thought for a moment. “Yes. I know where there’s a hospital. And the emergency number is 911.” 

Ms. Macleod laughed. “Very good. How do you feel? Are you ready to go home?” 

He had no idea what to say to that, but he tried to be as honest as possible. “I’m ready to not be in the hospital any more, that’s for sure.” 

She nodded. “I hear that. Okay. When the doctor brings the discharge papers, read them carefully. You’ll probably get a sheet of home care instructions. Make sure you understand them. If you have any questions, let the doctor know. He can call me, and we can go over the instructions together before you sign, okay?” 

“Okay.” He was fairly sure that the only thing that he could do was to sit at home and wait for the pain in his belly to stop flaring up. His injuries were nearly healed already, and he couldn’t imagine any need for further home care. 

“Great.” Ms. Macleod tucked her clipboard under her arm and stood up. “It was nice to meet you, Captain. I wish I could stay and chat with you a while longer, but I have other cases to get to. Call me if you have a problem.” 

Steve put a smile on his face. “Yes, ma’am.” 

She nodded and left the room. Steve found the remote control and turned the television on just so that there would be some noise in the room. The set came to life, and showed a woman cooking beef stroganoff. She chattered about sauces and herbs, and chopped vegetables, and cooked noodles. Her voice washed over Steve, and kept the pain at bay just enough that he could drift for a while in an almost pleasant limbo where fear and uncertainty and grief did not matter. 

After a while, it was noon, and the cooking show had given way to a soap opera. There was a knock at his door, and Steve brought his mind back to reality just in time to see Sam step into the room carrying a small bag in his hand and a backpack slung over one shoulder. Steve gave Sam a genuine smile, pleased that Sam had not forgotten about him. Sam returned the smile, and the pain receded. 

“Hey, Steve,” Sam said. “How you doing?” 

“The doc said I might be able to go home today.” 

“That’s amazing.” Sam shook his head. “Five days ago, we found you covered in mud and blood and gunky river water, knocking on death’s door, and now look at you. Going home just like nothing was ever wrong.” 

“I can’t wait.” Steve took a breath, and the smile faded from his face. “You’ll still . . . would you still be able to take me home?” 

Sam nodded. “Of course. I told you I’d take care of that. I’m happy to help. Just glad to see you alive.” 

Steve leaned back on his pillow and didn’t bother to disguise his sigh of relief. “I don’t want to be here any more,” he said softly. 

“Yeah.” Sam’s expression softened. He offered Steve the bag in his hand. “Brought you something.” 

Steve opened the bag and pulled out a deck of cards, a pad of plain white paper and a pack of new, sharp pencils, and an issue of _National Geographic_ with a photograph of a German Shepherd on the cover. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely touched that Sam had thought to bring him a gift. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring it over sooner,” Sam said. “You were pretty out of it for a few days, and I didn’t expect you to be well enough to be getting bored quite so fast.” 

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle. “No one really expects it,” he said. “Sometimes I forget, too.” 

“No, don’t tell me that!” Sam laughed. “I might realize that you’re human after all. But seriously, it’s good to see you back among the living. Which reminds me.” He swung the backpack down to the floor. “These are the clothes you had at that underground hideout facility, before you changed into your combat suit. One of the support agents over there had them washed, so you’ll have something to wear when you leave.”

“Appreciate it.” Steve glanced down at his new riches, spread over the bedside table. “Can you stay for a bit? Maybe help me play with these cards?”

“Sure thing.” Sam pulled up a chair and sat down. “What’s your pleasure? Rummy? Rat Screw?” 

Steve thought for a moment. “How about Twenty-One?”

  
“That’s blackjack, right?” Sam opened the pack of cards and began to shuffle them. “All right. You’re on!” 

They settled down to play cards, with the television chattering softly behind them. It was the most peaceful time that Steve had had in a while, and the pain in his gut was completely gone by the time the doctor arrived bearing his discharge papers.

 

 

As thrilled as Steve was to be out of the hospital, his injuries and surgical wounds still felt tender and sore, and moving around had become a daunting, exhausting task. Sam carried the backpack with his few possessions, but it was still a struggle for Steve to climb the stairs to his apartment. For all that he had spent most of the past week in a hospital bed, he was still looking forward to curling up beneath his own blankets, where his familiar tokens sat on the nightstand so that he could see them as he fell asleep. As he fumbled for the keys in his jacket pocket, he wondered if any of the food he had had in the house would still be edible, or if he might be able to prevail on Sam’s good will to help him get to the Metro Supermarket for supplies. 

When he got to the top of the stairs, he saw that his apartment door hung slightly open. A chill washed through him, and he stopped in mid-stride, not quite able to take in what he saw. Pulse racing, he pushed at the door, and watched as the lock swung freely, dangling by a screw. The place was utterly silent. He glanced over his shoulder, and Sam nodded sharply to him. If there was a burglar, they could handle it. Steve took a deep breath and stepped inside. 

He had forgotten about the three bullet holes in the wall and the broken window that was letting a cool breeze flow through the apartment. But at least he could remember that damage being inflicted. In the several days since he had been home, someone had entered and ransacked the place. Books and papers lay scattered over the floor, the television had been overturned, the record player and the speakers were smashed, and the table lamp lay in a corner. His dishes lay in shards on the floor. Half of the pictures were gone from the walls, and the other half hung at crazy angles. 

Numb and shaking, Steve wandered into the bedroom to find that his closet door was open, and the dresser drawers half-closed. His clothing was flung haphazardly around the bedroom. The kitchen was littered with glass, twisted cooking utensils, and spilled food. Steve could do no more than stand in the middle of the wreckage, gulping down air that stuck in his throat. “They searched the place,” he choked out. 

“Probably looking for the Insight plans,” Sam said. “After they declared you a fugitive.”

Steve began to shiver, although the breeze coming through the broken window wasn’t that chilly. Sam put his hands on Steve’s shoulders, steered him back into the living room, and made him sit on the sofa. 

“Okay,” he said. “You can’t stay here tonight. I’ll pick up some clothes for you, and then we’re going back to my place. We’ll deal with this tomorrow, or the next day. Right now, you need to be some place safe and comfortable.” 

Sam took the backpack and went to the bedroom, where Steve’s entire wardrobe lay on scattered display. Steve sat in silence for a few moments until Sam returned, his backpack now full. He extended a hand and pulled Steve to his feet.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll go back to my place, order a pizza, and I’ll make up a bed for you on the couch. We can deal with this later.” 

Steve wasn’t sure that he really wanted to leave the place that held the very few valuable things that he owned, but he was too tired and too sore to argue. The pain in his gut had come back, and now his shoulders ached as well. He followed Sam out of his ruined apartment. 

 

 

Steve didn’t start to feel like himself again until he was at Sam’s house, dressed in soft pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt, picking at a slice of pizza. It was comforting to know that, even if the particular items that could be delivered had changed since he was a boy, the concept of home delivery was still around in the twenty-first century. He did miss milk delivery, but, to be honest, at the moment, he was perfectly happy with the idea that an entire mushroom pizza could appear at Sam’s door, still warm. He folded the slice in half, and Sam smiled at him. 

“You really are from New York,” he said. 

“So is the best pizza,” Steve replied, feeling a little brighter as he ate food that tasted like something for the first time in a week. “Bucky and I used to go to Coney Island sometimes, you know, to play games and go on the rides. We’d save up money for food, and sometimes we’d go to Totonno’s for a slice of pizza. We thought it was real exotic.” 

“Sounds like fun,” Sam said with a laugh. “Hey, as long as we’re just chatting here, can I ask what made you move to D.C.? I mean, you’re just such a . . . well, such a New Yorker. I would have thought you’d want to stay, get to know your hometown again.” 

Steve dropped his gaze to the table and shrugged. “Wasn’t my choice,” he said. “SHIELD assigned me here a couple of months ago so I could lead the STRIKE team.” 

“Ah.” A light dawned in Sam’s eyes. “So many things make more sense now.” 

“At least one of us feels that way.” Steve set his half-eaten pizza slice down on his plate. It wasn’t bad pizza, though it didn’t match his memories of Totonno’s, either, but he had run out of energy to chew and swallow food. Sam nodded, and closed the pizza box. 

“I’ll take care of things in here,” he said. “It’s been a long day. You go get ready, and I’ll make up the couch for you.” 

“Thanks.” Steve rose from the table and stumbled toward the bathroom.

  

 

When he wandered back into Sam’s living room, he saw that the oversized sofa now sported sheets, a pillow, and an olive-green Army-issue blanket. Unbidden, a memory of curling up beneath blankets on Bucky’s sofa after his mother’s death floated into his mind. Bucky had sat up with him on nights when he cried into the pillow, and had brought him cups of weak tea afterwards. He sat down on the sofa, and wondered if Sam would be angered to find tear stains on his pillowcases in the morning. “This is . . . you didn’t have to do this,” he said, not quite able to express the jumble of thoughts whirring in his head.

Sam flopped down in an armchair. “Well, we have seen combat together,” he pointed out. “But think of it as childhood wish fulfillment, if it makes it easier. Helping out Captain America, every kid’s dream.” 

Steve frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“You sure you want to talk about it now?” 

“Might as well.” Steve shrugged. “Everyone always seems to have a better idea of who Captain America is than I do. Even my old acting coach did. Gets a little old after a while.” 

Sam nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “Lie down, and I’ll tell you my bit.” 

Steve lay down on the sofa and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. The sofa cushions were firmer than he had expected, and he squirmed until he lay with his back pressed against the back of the sofa, supported on two sides. “Tell me,” he said. 

Sam leaned back in his armchair and smiled. “So, when I was a kid, back in the Eighties, there were these cartoons on TV on Saturday morning, and I used to watch them while I had breakfast. I’d sit there in my jammies, eating Frosted Flakes or Froot Loops or something like that, and I’d watch these cartoons.” 

“That sounds like Saturday morning at the picture house,” Steve said. “Bucky and I used to go with our mothers when we were real little, before we were old enough to spend the morning at shul. I remember a lot of Westerns, but there were cartoons, too.” 

Sam laughed. “Then you’ll love this part. My favorite Saturday morning cartoon show, when I was about seven or eight years old, was _Captain America’s All-Star Hero Team_.” 

“Oh no!” Steve could feel a blush creeping over his face, even as his mouth pulled into a smile. 

“Oh yes!” Sam said. “It was just what you’re thinking, too. Every week, Captain America fought the evil Communist forces of HYDRA, with his mighty shield and his laser gun.” 

Steve couldn’t help but laugh a little. “HYDRA was a Nazi organization, not Communist. And I never had a laser gun.” 

“Hey, man, it was the Eighties,” Sam said. “It was the Cold War, and laser guns were cool.”

“I guess if you’re the one shooting them.”

Sam nodded soberly for a moment before his storyteller’s smile spread across his face again. “Anyway, Captain America always had these kids with him. There were maybe five or six, very multi-ethnic, one little girl with yellow pigtails, that sort of thing. The kids used to help Captain America defeat the bad guys, and there would always be a lesson at the end of the show. Don’t swim during thunderstorms, don’t give your address to strangers, that sort of thing.” 

“Oh my God.” Steve could just imagine the face that Eli Cramer would have made upon hearing that. 

“Yeah, well,” Sam said with a shrug. “Anyway, that was my favorite show when I was a kid. And in the afternoons, after the cartoons were over, my friends and I would get together and play Captain America’s Heroes in our back yards. We’d run around with squirt guns and pretend they were lasers, and we’d go _pew pew pew_ and just annoy the shit out of our parents.”

“Oh, your parents were lucky,” Steve told him. “We had rubber band guns. I learned the hard way not to shoot Bucky’s sisters in the behind with one of those.” 

“Because they kicked your ass later?”

“Absolutely.” 

Sam chuckled. “I bet you deserved every bit of it.” He looked at Steve with that strange look that people sometimes had when trying to reconcile their image of Captain America with the reality that was just Steve Rogers. “Yeah,” he said. “So helping Captain America fight bad guys was literally my childhood fantasy. Now you know.”

Steve plucked at the blanket wrapped around him. “Seems like your fantasy had more laser guns and less making up beds on sofas. Sorry about that.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Sam shrugged. “I’ve done the fighting-the-bad-guys-with-Captain-America part. This is the taking-care-of-Steve-Rogers part. The gritty sequel for the grownups. I’m glad that I can do both.” 

Steve nodded and curled up around the pillow. “Thank you,” he said. He thought for a moment. “You know, I never really liked that old stage show, but there was one thing I loved. I loved seeing the looks on the kids’ faces. How they loved the magic, and the whole razzle-dazzle of Captain America, and how they loved to come and see me after the performance. That was the best part. It was a stupid show and a weird character, but I’m glad that it made the kids happy. And I guess it kept on making them happy even after I . . . stopped.” 

Sam nodded. “Mm-hmm. And pretty soon, you’ll find another way to make kids happy again. Don’t you worry about that. Get some rest, and we’ll pick this up in the morning.” 

“Okay.” Steve was too tired to argue. “What about you?” 

“I’m going to go to bed and have happy dreams about running around with squirt guns.”

Steve smiled. “ _Pew pew pew_.” 

“Exactly. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sam switched off the light and left. Steve rolled himself more firmly into the blanket, and allowed the image of Sam as a joyous little boy squirting his friends in the back yard to guide him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 


	2. Ten Times Undone

  1. **Ten Times Undone**



 

 

After a full night’s sleep out of the hospital, Steve woke up feeling strong enough to go running with Sam. The surgical wounds in his legs and abdomen had nearly healed, but they twinged just enough to keep Steve to a relatively sedate pace, jogging at Sam’s side rather than overtaking him. Sam didn’t even pretend not to be delighted by this turn of events and made sure to mock Steve thoroughly enough that they were both laughing by the time they came to a halt. Steve’s running-induced good mood carried him through a shower and breakfast, but he found himself dawdling over coffee as a lump of apprehension settled in his stomach. 

“We don’t have to go back to your place today,” Sam said, but Steve shook his head. 

“Yeah, we do,” he replied. “I can’t just mooch off of you forever. I have to go and pick things up, and the longer I wait, the harder it’s going to be.” 

Sam shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to play it.” 

“It has to be. I’m going to call Natasha and fill her in, and then I’ll head out, pick up a temporary lock and some cleaning supplies, and get started.” 

“By yourself?” Sam’s eyebrows rose. 

Steve sighed. “You’ve done so much for me already. I know that last night was partly wish-fulfillment, but I can’t imagine that any of the games you played when you were little were about picking up broken stuff and scrubbing floors.” 

Sam smiled at him. “Nope. That was what boot camp was all about. Come on, Cap. Let’s get a squad together.” 

Steve helped Sam clear the table, and then Sam shooed Steve off to call Natasha while he loaded the dishwasher. 

Natasha answered her phone on the second ring. “Steve?” she said. “How are you doing?” 

“Okay, I think. I got out of the hospital.” 

“I know.” He heard a sardonic twist in her voice that was as close as she would probably come to laughter for a while. “You’re not at home. I’m guessing at Sam’s place?” 

“Yeah.” Now that he thought about it, that hadn’t been such a stretch for her, since he didn’t have many other friends in Washington. “We’re going back to mine in about an hour, though. Have to stop at a store first for a door lock and cleaning supplies. The place is . . . it’s pretty bad.” 

“I’m sorry.” Natasha’s voice warmed a little, and Steve thought that she probably did feel something. “Want me to meet you there? I’m on admin leave until they start sorting through this mess.” 

Steve choked a little, and coughed to cover it. “Sure, if you don’t mind. That’d be great.” 

“I need something to do. Fury said not to leave town. I’ll be over by your place in an hour.” 

“Thank you.” Steve smiled a little. 

“No problem,” she said. “Later.” 

Steve ended the call, and wandered back into the kitchen just as Sam loaded the last of the breakfast dishes and set the dishwasher humming.

  

 

An hour later, Steve climbed the stairs to his apartment once more, followed by Sam and Natasha. He had a paper bag containing a sliding bolt lock and a door chain in his jacket pocket. All three of them were armed with brooms, dustpans, sponges, cleaning liquid, and thick plastic trash bags. 

Steve took a deep breath and pushed the door open. In the light of day, the mess was not as shocking and terrifying as it had been the night before, but Steve still choked a little at the sight. He took a step forward, and something shifted under his foot. He knelt down and discovered the shattered remains of the little mezuzah that he had bought in New York upon receiving his orders to relocate to Washington. The pretty, iridescent case lay in shards on the floor, and the scroll was crumpled and torn and bore the faint imprint of a boot tread. 

Natasha glanced over his shoulder and swore softly. “That’s just mean,” she said. 

“It was at my shoulder height on the door frame,” Steve said, pointing to the divot in the wall where the mezuzah had been ripped out. “It couldn’t have been an accident. It’s not big enough to hold a data stick. They didn’t have to do that.” 

“Is there any way to fix it?” Sam asked. 

Steve shook his head. “I’m going to have to get a new one.” He scooped the shards and the remnants of the scroll into his hand and picked his way through the destruction into the kitchen. Fortunately, the box of small sandwich baggies was more or less where it was supposed to be. He deposited the pieces of the mezuzah into a baggie and sealed it. “I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do with a broken one,” he said, “but let’s not put it into a trash bag just yet.” 

“Got it,” Sam said. “Put it on the window sill here, and we’ll know not to disturb it.” 

Natasha pulled her phone from her pocket and began to take pictures. 

“What are you doing?” Steve asked. 

She snapped another picture. “Documenting this. The STRIKE team didn’t just search your home, they trashed it. There should be a record of this. Show people what it meant to have HYDRA working inside SHIELD.” 

Steve nodded, and allowed Natasha to take several pictures of each room. When she had finished, he gathered everyone in the living room. “I think the best way to start is for everyone to take a room. Anything that’s broken beyond repair goes into a trash bag. Anything that’s not broken, or that’s fixable, put it somewhere tidy. Then we can scrub the place down. I’ll rearrange things later, once I know what’s still useful.” 

The apartment wasn’t all that big. Sam took a trash bag into the kitchen, while Natasha claimed the living room. Steve installed the temporary locks on the door, and then took his trash bag into his bedroom and began to sort through the piles of clothing, books, and personal items. He worked in silence for a while, consigning the clock radio and the bedside lamp to the trash bag, along with a few garments that he suspected had been shredded with knives. He had a moment of panic when he saw that the carefully padded and wrapped box that contained his mother’s seder plate and cup of Elijah had been opened, but although the bubble wrap and flannel that surrounded them was ripped, the plate and cup were both whole. 

Steve took enough courage from the sight of his mother’s undamaged things to tidy away the books and clothing. Some of the books had been slashed with knives, and some of the clothes were torn so badly that they were only useful as cleaning rags. But enough of them were either whole or able to be mended that Steve wouldn’t have to go shopping for a new wardrobe any time soon. He folded everything neatly, and put the mending into a tidy pile on the armchair. He noted the titles of the damaged books in case he decided to replace any of them. One was a library book, and he grimaced as he noted that one. The replacement fine wouldn’t be very much, but Steve had never enjoyed being on the receiving end of a disapproving glare from a librarian. 

Once he had finished dealing with books and clothes, Steve turned to the other small objects scattered around the room. Shoes went into the closet, and Steve set aside a wristwatch to have its band replaced. Then he went to investigate the nightstand, and sucked in a pained breath at what he saw.

His old compass, with its newspaper photo of Peggy Carter, lay open on the floor, the metal casing twisted and bent out of shape. The lid hung from one hinge, and the compass face was half popped out of the case. The picture inside was intact, and Steve carried the compass over to the dresser and set it gently beside the watch. He returned to the nightstand and noticed with some apprehension that the drawer pull was damaged. When he slid the drawer open, his legs turned to water, and he sat down hard on the floor. 

The only thing inside the drawer had been a photograph of Bucky and himself that had been taken in a photo booth the day after Bucky had received his draft notice. Bucky had just told Steve the filthiest joke Steve had ever heard, and the camera had gone off just as Steve had burst into raucous laughter, with Bucky smiling impishly at his side. Steve had kept the photograph first in his wallet, and then later in his footlocker. He had considered tucking it into an inside pocket in his combat suit before going out to hunt down Johann Schmidt, but had decided against it, fearing that it might be damaged, leaving him with no other photograph of Bucky. The Smithsonian had returned it to him along with his mother’s seder plate, and it was still the only photograph of Bucky that Steve owned. 

Or, rather, it had been. Now, it lay torn into three pieces, with Bucky’s face ripped in half. Steve’s hands shook as he laid the pieces on top of the nightstand and tried to fit them together as if they were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. His breath stopped for a moment, and his vision blurred. The two shreds of Bucky’s smile seemed to dance before him, and he could not suppress a cry of grief and anger.

His shout brought Sam and Natasha hurrying into the bedroom. They glanced from Steve to the torn photograph that he tried to push back together. Without a word, Natasha knelt down and pulled Steve’s hands away. He bowed his head, and she put her arm around his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Sam said. “Was this the only picture you had?” 

“Yeah,” Steve choked out. “I kept it safe after Bucky d – after he fell. Then I got it back from the Smithsonian a few months ago, and I kept it safe again. At least, I thought it was safe. I tried to keep it safe. I wanted –“ Steve’s voice cracked. Natasha pulled him into a fierce, hard embrace just as Steve’s eyes began to sting, and she held him while he wept. 

After Steve had managed to control his tears, he looked up to find Sam offering him a tissue, which he took gratefully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Wasting time like that.” 

Sam shook his head. “No, don’t apologize. That was – what they did to you with that photograph, that was cruel. You have every right to be hurt and angry about it.” 

“Hurt and anger won’t bring that picture back,” Steve said. 

Natasha gave his shoulder a squeeze. “No, but a good restoration shop would.” She leaned over to snap a picture of the pieces laid out on the nightstand. “There. That’s documented. There are places that specialize in restoring old photographs. Want me to see if I can get this fixed for you?”

Steve chewed his lip. “I could glue it back together myself,” he said. “The tears would still be there.” 

“The photo place will do it better,” Natasha assured him. “You’d be amazed what they can do these days. They can scan the pieces and smooth out all the torn parts. Especially with this picture. It’s in books.” 

“I went to one of those places to get an old family photo touched up for my mom’s birthday,” Sam added. “You won’t get the original paper back, but you’ll have the image completely intact. You can have Bucky’s picture again.” 

It was the first ray of hope that Steve had had all day. “Okay,” he said. 

Natasha gave him one more firm embrace. She got up, swept the photograph pieces into her hand, and took them away. Sam stayed with Steve for a few minutes until Steve was ready to get up and resume cleaning.

 

 

By nightfall, Steve’s apartment was still not completely put back together. But it was clean, and the trash bags filled with broken objects sat just outside the door, where Steve could take them down to the garbage cans out back in the morning. They had taken down one bag, which was full of spoiled, trampled food. Steve contemplated his depleted refrigerator. “I need to make a grocery list,” he said. 

“Nah,” Natasha said, from where she had flopped down on the sofa. “We’ve done enough work. Let’s order in.” 

Steve shook his head. “Sam and I ordered pizza last night. It’s too much.” 

“So let’s do Chinese tonight.” Natasha smiled at Steve, and he had to laugh. 

“I do like orange beef,” he said. 

Sam grinned. “Good. I like General Tso’s Chicken.” 

“Ma-po tofu for me, and get a big order of egg rolls and sesame noodles too,” Natasha said. “And extra rice. Actually, make that fried rice.” 

“And some steamed dumplings and a big bottle of Sprite,” Sam added. 

“Okay, okay.” Steve raised his hands in happy surrender and went to go find his phone.

  

 

As much as he liked the food, Steve found himself without much of an appetite. He picked at the orange beef, and did not touch either the chicken or the tofu beyond a polite taste of each. Instead, he stirred his fried rice with his chopsticks and occasionally glanced over his shoulder to the spot in the living room where the Winter Soldier had shot Nick Fury through the wall. He and Sam and Natasha had covered the bullet holes and the broken window with plastic and duct tape and had scrubbed most of the bloodstain out of the floor. They had been thorough enough that no actual blood was left, but there was a faint discoloration, and Steve would always know what had caused it. He sternly told himself not to look again, and turned his attention to his plate of congealing orange beef and fried rice. 

“Steve?” Natasha’s voice was gentle, but it startled Steve anyway, and his chopsticks clattered to the floor. Natasha smiled, and leaned down to pick them up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay? You’ve hardly touched your food.” 

Steve shrugged. “Not really hungry, I guess.” 

“You have to eat,” she said. “Especially with your metabolism, after all that work we did today.” 

“I can’t,” Steve admitted. “My stomach is all tied up in knots. I can’t stop thinking about that photograph.” 

“The photograph?” Sam asked. “Or the people in the photograph?” 

Steve nodded. A chill washed through him, and he shivered, and wrapped his arms around his body. Natasha’s phone pinged in the sudden silence. She checked the messages and scowled. 

“Idiots,” she muttered. “Can’t leave it for one night.” 

“Urgent?” Steve asked. “You should go, if you have to. Don’t worry about it. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Natasha put her phone in her pocket, but seemed reluctant to leave the table. She and Sam exchanged a freighted glance, and Sam put his hand on the table next to Steve’s.

“I’m a little worried about you,” he said. “I don’t really want to leave you here alone, and – correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am – I don’t really think you want to be left here alone, either.” 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to face his own shame, and shook his head. “I can’t ask this of you, Sam.”

“I know,” Sam said. “That’s why I’m doing the asking. I can sleep on the couch tonight if you want.” 

“Okay.” It was the only word that could escape Steve’s almost-closed throat, and he hoped that Sam could hear the “Thank you” that had tried to come with it. 

Natasha left them with a promise to return in the morning. Steve collected clean, undamaged sheets, a pillow, and a blanket for the sofa, and Sam put the Chinese leftovers into the refrigerator. At Sam’s suggestion, Steve took a hot shower and went to bed, happy to put an end to a long and difficult day.

  

 

_Steve’s boots thumped solidly on the floor as he strode through the corridors of the HYDRA installation. He carried his shield on his back, and with each step he took, he could feel the weight of a SHIELD-issued Glock 19 holstered at his hip. Members of the STRIKE team marched behind him, occasionally shouting Clear! as they passed rooms.  
_

_Brock Rumlow stood before Steve and saluted, crisp and proper. We got ‘em, Cap, he said. The command center is down.  
_

_Casualties? Steve asked.  
_

_Only on their side, sir. We did take one of their soldiers alive. Rollins is with him now.  
_

_Steve turned, and saw Jack Rollins holding a dark, armored figure. The HYDRA soldier’s hands were secured behind his back, and his face was covered with a mask.  
_

_He doesn’t know anything, Rumlow said. He’s useless to us.  
_

_Rumlow and Rollins forced the Winter Soldier to his knees. Rollins pulled his head back, and Rumlow removed his mask, so that Steve could see Bucky’s face, contorted with terror.  
_

_He’s malfunctioning, Nick Fury said from beside Steve. Not doing what we wanted. We can’t keep him here. He’s a liability.  
_

_Steve shook his head, unable to speak.  
_

_He’s already gone rogue, Rollins said.  
_

_What do you do with a rabid dog that you can’t control? Rumlow asked.  
_

_It would be a kindness, Fury said.  
_

_Rumlow smiled as he pressed a pistol into Steve’s hand.  
_

_Bucky knelt on the floor at Steve’s feet, shaking in mute terror. He raised his head to look at Steve, and his eyes pleaded for help.  
_

_He’s not Bucky, Fury said.  
_

_Bucky died in 1945, Rollins added.  
_

_Put him down, Cap, Rumlow said. We’ve won.  
_

_Steve stared into Bucky’s eyes. His arm stretched out in front of him, his hand holding the pistol. He felt nothing below his neck, but his hand was steady, and the pistol’s aim did not waver.  
_

_Bucky’s gaze focused on the barrel of the gun. Please, he said. Please.  
_

_The shot was deafening at close range.  
_

_Rumlow laughed, and his laughter filled Steve’s head.  
_

_Steve screamed and screamed and screamed_

  

 

He woke up, still screaming. Feet pounded, and then Sam was with him, flipping on the overhead light. Steve squinted in its sudden glare and gasped for breath. 

“Steve, it’s all right,” Sam said. “You were dreaming. You’re safe now. Whatever was going on in your head, it wasn’t real.” 

The light was too bright, and it hurt Steve’s eyes, but when he closed them, he was back in the small dark room with Rumlow laughing. The blanket was wrapped around his body, binding him in place. He squirmed and fought to free himself. There was another scream trapped in the back of his throat, and he couldn’t breathe. 

“It’s all right.” Sam’s hands came to rest on the back of Steve’s neck, cradling his head and radiating warmth down through his shoulders. “You’re okay. Breathe with me, okay? Breathe in, and breathe out. Breathe in, and breathe out.” 

Steve obeyed. The first few breaths hurt his throat and his lungs. But gradually, the muscles relaxed from their spasms, and Steve could take a deep breath and let it out as a painful moan. 

Sam sat with him for a while, until he was fully awake, and the image of his pistol aimed exactly between Bucky’s eyes receded into memory. When his trembling had eased, Sam eased his hands from Steve’s neck. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go into the kitchen and get something to eat.” 

Steve shrugged into his robe and went with Sam. Although the kitchen had been a mess, not everything had been destroyed. There was a box of powdered cocoa mix in the back of a cupboard, and two mugs that had survived mostly intact, one with a chip in the edge, and one missing part of its handle. Sam made Steve sit at the table while he filled the kettle and put some of the leftover egg rolls and dumplings on a paper plate. 

“I used to get nightmares right after I came back,” he said, while he waited for the water to boil. “Kept seeing Riley blown out of the sky. Night after night, in living color.” 

“Did food help?” Steve asked. 

Sam shrugged. “Sometimes. For me, it was just getting out of bed and doing something else. You barely ate anything tonight, though, so I figured it’d be worth a shot to get something into you.” 

A smile tugged at one corner of Steve’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said. He dropped his gaze to the plate of egg rolls and dumplings. “I’ve been saying that a lot recently. You’ve done so much for me. I’m not sure how to repay you.” 

Sam poured water over the cocoa mix in the mugs and stirred. “Keep on getting better. That’s what you can do. I’ve seen too many people where you are now, and it’s a crying shame that we don’t have better ways to take care of them. We lose too many, but I am not losing Captain America. Not on my watch.” He picked up the two mugs of cocoa. “Let’s go and turn on the TV for a bit. Bring the food. We’ll have a picnic.” 

Steve brought the plate into the living room. Sam turned on the television, and they sat on the floor, with their cocoa and the plate of egg rolls and dumplings between them. Steve occasionally used the television to watch baseball games or a movie, but he had no idea what could be airing past midnight. Sam flipped through the channels for a few moments, and then his face brightened. 

“Oh, man,” he said. “This is just what we need. This is the perfect thing for a picnic at two in the morning.” 

The channel that Sam had selected appeared to show nothing other than lengthy commercials for household gadgets designed to make life easier for an array of stunningly incompetent people. Steve stared at the first few in bemused horror, unable to comprehend how apparently fit, healthy people could not manage to crack eggs or chop vegetables. They failed to wrap towels around their bodies, use soap, or stir pots of soup. Plastic boxes assaulted them from overstuffed cupboards. But there was a gadget to help them with everything, it seemed. 

After a while, Steve picked up the rhythm of the commercials and began to enjoy them. He and Sam ate egg rolls and dumplings, drank cocoa, and laughed at the overacting and the characters’ failure to complete basic tasks. He nearly spit out a mouthful of cocoa watching a commercial for a spring dumbbell. “They can’t be serious,” he gasped. “That shaking movement . . . they have to know what that looks like, right?” 

“Of course they do,” Sam said, between wheezes of his own laughter. “I think that’s the only reason this thing exists, is so they can advertise it like that.” 

They watched for a while, until they had finished the cocoa and the Chinese appetizers, and the commercial channel had begun to advertise ugly jewelry and compilation albums of terrible music. Steve lost interest, and his limbs grew heavy, and it became harder and harder to keep his eyes open. A chill washed through him, and he shuddered. When it passed, all of his muscles seemed to relax at once, and he leaned against the sofa. Sam nudged him and gave him a smile. 

“Want to try going back to sleep in your bed?” 

Steve nodded. He waited for a moment, gathering the mental strength, and then pushed himself to his feet. “Good night, Sam,” he said. “Sorry for waking you.” 

“Not a problem. Sleep well.” 

Steve carried the plate and the mugs back into the kitchen, and returned to his bed. It was warm and soft, and he managed to spend the rest of the night without dreams.

 


	3. Tikkun Olam

  1. **Tikkun Olam**



  

 

Natasha appeared the next morning, as she had promised, bearing bagels, cream cheese, and orange juice, which she hadn’t promised. Steve welcomed her with more genuine enthusiasm than he had had for anything for the last few weeks. As much as he did like Chinese food, he was not fond of eating it cold and congealed for breakfast. The toaster had been a casualty of the search, as had the coffee machine. Steve offered to make boiled coffee on the stove, as he and his men had done during the war. Natasha looked intrigued, but Sam gave a mock howl of protest. 

“I had enough of that shit while I was over there,” he said, laughing. “You can drink all the Greatest Generation sludge you want. I’ll stop by a Starbucks this morning. There’s one right near the VA. I think one of the baristas has a little bit of a thing for me.” 

“Better watch out,” Steve said, as he sliced a poppy-seed bagel in half. “Natasha’ll try to set you up with her before you know it.” 

“Unfortunately, he’s not my type,” Sam replied. 

Steve blinked. Even after two and a half years, he still forgot how openly people discussed certain things now. There were some things to like about the future. He smiled as he brought bagels to the table. “His loss,” he said. “The finest non-toasted bagels, right here. Natasha, do you want coffee?” 

“If there’s enough for both of us,” she said. “I had a late night.” 

Steve finished putting breakfast together and sat down with Sam and Natasha. Natasha perked up a little once she’d had some coffee. 

“I was Skyping with Tony and Pepper last night,” she said. “That’s Tony Stark and Pepper Potts,” she added, for Sam’s benefits. 

“I kind of figured,” Sam said, reaching for cinnamon-raisin bagel. 

“They called at Way-Too-Late-Thirty,” Natasha went on. “I swear to God, somebody needs to knock the concept of time zones into Tony’s thick skull.”

“Good luck with that,” Steve said.

Natasha shrugged. “Anyway, they’d heard all about last week on the news and they wanted to check in and find out what had happened. I gave them the basics. They were pretty surprised.” 

Steve shrugged. “Tell them to join the club.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much what they’re doing.” Natasha poured herself more coffee. “They’re flying out tomorrow. Pepper’s coming here. She said she wants to supervise whatever sorting out is happening between SHIELD and Stark Industries. I think she’ll also want to see you and meet Sam, so expect a dinner invitation some time soon.” 

Sam paused, a paper cup of orange juice halfway to his mouth. “Um . . . we’re talking about Pepper Potts, the Stark CEO? Cover of _BusinessWeek_ last year?” 

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Pepper’s nice. She kind of . . . translates Tony for the rest of the world. They’re good for each other.” 

“Holy –“ Sam blinked. “Well, thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure to find my good suit.” 

“She’ll appreciate that.” Steve turned back to Natasha. “Is Tony coming in, too?” 

Natasha shook her head. “Tony’s going to New York. He said he was going to open up the Tower again, get it all functional.” She gave Steve a meaningful look. 

Steve gazed down at his breakfast and took a bite of his bagel to cover the rush of feeling that went through his chest. He had never been happy in Washington, and seeing what HYDRA – or SHIELD, since they were apparently one and the same – had done to his home had rattled him. If Tony was opening up the Tower again . . . Steve pushed the thought away, so as not to attract bad luck, but not before visions of his old apartment and his friends in New York flitted before his mind’s eye. 

“It may take a while,” Natasha said, “But I just thought you should know that there are . . . options out there. You can talk about it with Pepper when she gets in.” 

Steve nodded. Sam finished his bagel and looked at his watch. 

“Okay, I have to go,” he said. “Shift at the VA starts in forty minutes, and there’s some paperwork I need to look at first.” 

He drank down the last of his orange juice, and Steve rose to walk him to the door. “Thanks for staying,” he said. “Last night was . . . well.” 

“Happens to the best of us,” Sam said. “Can I ask you a favor?” 

“Sure. Anything.” 

Sam’s mouth tightened for a moment before he spoke. “Look, last night was last night, but it’s not going to be the only one. Will you check in with me this evening? You look like you’re doing a lot better this morning, but this sort of thing takes time.” 

Steve nodded, unexpectedly touched that Sam cared enough to worry about him. “I’ll do that.”

“Good. And you’re always welcome to stop by the VA, too. Remember, you still have to make me look cool for Marissa at the desk.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

Sam gave Steve’s shoulder a brief squeeze, and then he left. Steve went back into the kitchen, where Natasha was looking at her phone. 

“Commander Hill just texted, wanting to know if you were out of the hospital yet. I told her you were.”

Just as she said that, Steve’s phone pinged twice with text messages. They were from Maria Hill’s personal number. Steve frowned in puzzlement, but then decided that it made sense. After all, Hill’s office in the Triskelion had been destroyed along with everyone else’s. He poked at the phone and managed to call up the messages. 

_We’ve got your shield.  
_

_Please report to temporary HQ to claim it._

As Steve read, another message came in. It gave an address in Arlington. 

“She says they have my shield,” he told Natasha. 

Natasha smiled. “Good. They had divers practically dredging the river for it after they found you without it. You lose it in the fight, or in the fall?” 

“Well . . . neither.” Steve sighed. “I dropped it through a busted glass panel. So I didn’t lose it. Not like that.” 

“You what?” Natasha’s eyebrows shot up. 

Steve sat down at the table and dropped his head into his hands. “It was – it was Bucky, up there. I couldn’t fight him. I couldn’t use the shield against him. He’s – he’s my . . . it was Bucky.” He looked at her helplessly, willing her to understand. 

“He could have killed you,” Natasha said slowly. “He nearly did kill you.” 

“I know,” Steve said. “But I couldn’t . . . it was Bucky.” He took a deep breath, unsure of how much to tell her. He remembered his resolve to trust her completely, and set his jaw. “It’s a little fuzzy, what happened up there, but . . . I couldn’t see a way off of the helicarrier. I don’t think I was expecting a safe landing. And . . . I don’t think I would have minded, either.” 

Natasha held his gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded. “Well. I’m glad you did make it, and that your shield made it, too. Want a ride out there?” 

Steve nodded. “Thanks.” 

He and Natasha made quick work of cleaning up breakfast, and then turned their energy to the rest of the apartment. They spent some time putting away the salvageable things that they had left in piles the day before, and Steve wiped down several surfaces that had only been hastily brushed. After an hour, the apartment still didn’t look quite like Steve’s home – although he was starting to doubt that it ever really had been his home – but at least it was beginning to look like someone’s home. 

Natasha grabbed her keys and checked her phone for directions to the temporary SHIELD site in Arlington. “Ready to go?” 

“Just a minute.” Steve hurried into his bedroom and picked up the damaged watch and compass. He put them into his pocket and returned to Natasha. “I’ll take these to a repair shop after we pick up my shield,” he said. 

Natasha nodded. “There’s a good place downtown. We can stop there and then go to the photo restoration place.” She pulled an envelope out of an inside pocket in her jacket and showed Steve the fragments of Bucky’s photograph inside. 

Steve forced a little smile, seeing the pieces. “I dreamed about Bucky last night,” he said softly. 

Natasha looked at him for a moment, seeming to process everything he had said with his expression, his posture, and the tone of his voice as well as with his words. She took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get going. Lots of repair places to visit.”

 

 

Following its dramatic fall into the Potomac, the remnant of SHIELD was housed in a nondescript office building in Arlington, near the Ronald Reagan Airport. The building was squat, cubical, and beige, with strips of darkened windows running around it at intervals. Natasha pulled into a nearly empty parking lot that boasted small, severely trimmed trees at mind-numbingly regular intervals. Steve had seen buildings like this before, and had hated them with every fiber of the illustrator he had been several lifetimes ago. Bruce had attempted to explain the style, citing both Walter Gropius and Mies van der Rohe, but Steve had not been convinced. Today, though, he found that the spare, blank building matched his mood and his feelings about SHIELD perfectly. 

A receptionist took one look at Steve and Natasha as they walked in, and called Maria Hill before they even had to request it. Natasha sat down on one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs in the lobby, but Steve remained standing. After a few minutes, the elevator at the far end of the lobby produced Maria Hill, as perfectly dressed and coiffed as ever, even in a plain gray civilian skirt suit. She smiled when she saw Steve and Natasha. 

“Good to see you two,” she said. “Steve, I’m so glad that you’re up and about again. I was afraid we’d lost you for good this time.” 

Steve couldn’t bring himself even to fake a smile. “Wouldn’t that have been a shame.” 

Hill coughed and looked at the floor for a moment. “Well. Good to have you back,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I really do mean that.” 

“You said you have the shield,” Natasha said. 

“That’s right. Come on upstairs with me. There’s a bit of paperwork we’ll need you to fill out, and then it’s all yours again.” Hill turned around, and Steve and Natasha followed her to the elevator.   Steve caught himself glancing around as the elevator doors closed, and he reminded himself sternly that both Natasha and Maria Hill had proven themselves to be part of the SHIELD that Peggy Carter had helped to found. 

Even so, he didn’t relax until he was inside Hill’s office, as nondescript as the rest of the building save for the brightly colored shield that rested against the desk. It had been cleaned, and polished until it shone under the fluorescent lights. Steve ran his finger along the edge and thought about the Winter Soldier – _Bucky_ – using his terrifying metal arm to pluck it out of the air as if it were no more than a gently lobbed baseball. He wondered what had happened to Bucky’s arm, whether he had lost it in his fall from the train or whether HYDRA had amputated it deliberately. Worryingly enough, either scenario was plausible. 

“Steve?” 

Steve looked up. Maria Hill was offering him a pen and a clipboard holding a stack of forms. “Sorry to interrupt the lovers’ reunion,” she said, “but I just need you to sign where I’ve marked an X. Here, here, here, here, here, and here, and initial here and here.” 

Steve scrawled his name over and over. Miss Goldhill, who had taught the third grade at P.S. 8 in Brooklyn, would have despaired at the deterioration of the Palmer Method script she had so carefully taught him, but Steve didn’t care. The world had shattered beneath him on a falling helicarrier a week ago. If signing his name six times was the only thing that stood between Steve and one of the fragments, then the Palmer Method could go hang. He wrote his initials in the last two spaces, dropped the clipboard on Hill’s desk, and picked up his shield. For a moment, he thought he saw the imprint of Bucky’s metal fist, but of course, that was just a trick of his imagination. Not even HYDRA’s best weapon technology could dent vibranium. 

“I’m sorry about Barnes,” Hill said, less confidently than usual. “I wish I’d known about that whole thing earlier. Fury and I might have been able to do something about it.” 

Steve shrugged. He’d heard plenty of stories about people who said that they hadn’t known about evil taking place right under their noses. Having met some of that evil in person, he found himself strangely inclined to be a little bit forgiving of its neighbors. “Or you might have ended up with both of your heads crushed by a metal hand,” he said. 

Hill nodded. “Or that.” 

Natasha cleared her throat. “Pepper’s going to be in town tomorrow,” she said. 

“I’ll have to give her a call,” Hill said, with a relieved little smile. “See if she might have an opening for a managerial type coming up any time soon.” 

“Thinking about a career change?” 

Hill dipped her head in acknowledgement. “A change in perspective, at least. Time to clear my head.” She glanced at Steve. “Might not be a bad idea for you, either. We’re not exactly the firm you signed up with.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said. “In the meantime, there are more errands to run. Thanks for taking care of the shield.” 

“It’s what we do best,” Hill said. She smirked a little as she said it, and Steve decided that she could be trusted after all. 

 

 

A jeweler near the White House quickly replaced the band on Steve’s watch with plain brown calfskin while he and Natasha waited. When the jeweler had finished with that task, Steve showed him the compass. “Do you know anyone who could fix this?” 

The jeweler turned the compass over in his hands. “That’s a real antique you’ve got there. Shame what happened to it.” He tested the damage with a weathered thumbnail. “I could probably get this working again, and maybe even smooth out the casing. It’ll reduce the antique value of your piece, though. Are you sure you want me to do this?” 

Steve’s mouth twitched. “It’s not about the antique value. Call it sentimental value instead.” 

The jeweler glanced up at the unexpected response, and seemed to see Steve for the first time. He took a closer look at the compass lid and examined the newspaper photo of Peggy. “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered. Then he straightened up and offered Steve his hand to shake. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I lit a candle for you in our side chapel every day after work after I heard about the attack on SHIELD.” 

Steve swallowed a lump that welled up in his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate the thought. The hospital isn’t the most pleasant place to be.” 

“For you, I’ll do this repair at no charge.” 

“No, that’s not necessary.” Steve reached for his wallet. “SHIELD hasn’t cut off my bank account. I can pay, whatever the repair cost is.” 

The jeweler shook his head. “No, no. You saved the city, maybe the world. This can be to thank you.” 

Steve ducked his head. “Appreciate it.” 

“Come back in a week,” the jeweler said. “I’ll have it working again for you.” 

Natasha smiled at Steve as they left the shop. “He was friendly. I notice you weren’t weirded out by the thing with the candles.” 

Steve shrugged. “Why should I be? It’s the same God. That’s what my mother always said. And anyway, I needed all the help I could get.” 

 

 

The woman who worked at the photo restoration shop was much quicker to welcome them than the jeweler had been. She introduced herself as Alexis and thanked Steve for his service even before she asked what they needed. Natasha removed the pieces of Steve’s photograph from their envelope and fitted them together like a puzzle. 

“Oh my goodness,” Alexis said. “That’s a famous picture. You’d see it in magazines and things like that. It was all over the newspapers a few years ago for the sixtieth anniversary of the war ending. Is this the original?” 

Steve nodded. “The Smithsonian had it for a while, but they gave it back to me. Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.” 

Alexis made a sympathetic noise. “What happened to it?” 

“Some HYDRA double agents broke into his house and trashed the place,” Natasha said. “They did this to hurt Steve. It worked.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Alexis said. She peered closely at the torn parts of the photograph, and fit them together more closely than Natasha had done. “Fortunately, this is absolutely something that I can restore. It won’t even be that difficult.” 

“Really?” Steve asked. 

Alexis nodded. “Really. Here, take a look. See how well the parts fit together? You didn’t actually lose any of the image. It’s just the paper that’s torn.” 

She pressed the two halves of Bucky’s face together, and Steve could see that the image was whole, even with a seam visible between Alexis’s fingers. He took a deep breath and shut his stinging eyes for a moment. Natasha put her hand on his shoulder. When he opened his eyes again, Alexis was smiling. “I’m sorry,” Steve said. “It’s just . . . that picture . . .” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Alexis said. She offered him a tissue from a box on her desk. “I get people in here every single day with important pictures that are damaged, and you wouldn’t believe how many people cry when I tell them that I can restore an old picture of their mother or their grandmother or someone like that.” 

Steve smiled as he dabbed at his eyes with the tissue. “I don’t have any pictures of my mother,” he said. 

“But you do have a birthday coming up in a few months,” Natasha observed. 

Steve crumpled the tissue and looked again at the fractured image of Bucky smiling beneath Alexis’s hand. “What about this picture?” he asked. “What’s going to happen to it?”

“I’m going to scan it on the highest possible resolution,” Alexis said. “Each piece gets scanned. Then I’ll fit the scans together and use the computer to smooth out the seams. That won’t be hard, since the image hasn’t been degraded much – you should see the job I have when people bring me badly stored daguerreotypes!” 

Natasha chuckled a little. “Then you print out a new picture?” 

Alexis nodded. “I don’t have any original photo paper from 1942. But what I’ll do is, I’ll pick some paper that’s about the same weight, and I’ll print it with a matte finish, in the same size, just like the original.” She turned to Steve. “It won’t be your original object, but it’ll be intact, and it’ll feel as much like the old one as we can do. Once I’m done, you can pick up the new print and the pieces of the old one. I’ll archive a copy of the scan, so if something else goes wrong in the future, we have a backup.” 

“Okay.” Steve took a deep breath. The print that Bucky had given him, still warm from the photo booth, was destroyed, but the picture could be saved. The important part would come back. “Please. However long this takes, I’ll wait. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay it gladly. Just . . . I need to have this picture.” 

Alexis swept the pieces back into their envelope and handed Steve a form to fill out. As he wrote down his name and address and a contact phone number, she called up something on the computer. “You know,” she said, “I can absolutely reproduce the picture to its original size. But I could also print a larger version, if you wanted. Something you could frame.” 

She turned the screen so that Steve could see it. A slightly off-color version of the photograph was there, clearly pulled up from an image search. Alexis found a simple wooden frame and held it up to the screen so that Steve could see the effect. Steve imagined the framed photo sitting on his bedside table, where he could see it as he fell asleep, or when he woke up from a nightmare. “I’d like that,” he said. “If I can’t . . . If I can’t have . . . I’d like that.” 

“Okay,” Alexis said. “I’ll print the extra one for you, and I’d recommend the framing shop two blocks north of here. I send clients there all the time, and they do great work. I can arrange for them to give you a discount on conservation glass, too.” 

Steve couldn’t speak. Natasha thanked Alexis, and nudged Steve to his feet. Even though Steve knew that the photograph of Bucky was in good hands, it was still hard to leave him behind. By the time Natasha pulled up at a sandwich shop, Steve’s gut was hurting again, a pain he thought he had left behind at the hospital. He gave Natasha some cash and waited for her in the car while she went into the shop. When she returned carrying a bag of food, she took one look at him and pulled out her cell phone. 

“Hi, Sam,” she said after a moment. “Not much. We’ve been running a few errands. Do you mind if we bring lunch over to you? Uh-huh. Chicken salad, if you want it. No, it’s fine. It’s just been a bit much. Okay. We’ll be there in ten. See you soon.” 

 

 

Natasha made Steve carry the food inside when they arrived at the VA. The desk clerk, Marissa, stared at them in awed silence. When it was clear that she wasn’t going to do anything except stare, Natasha rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone again to let Sam know that they had arrived. Sam came to meet them, and laughed when he saw the picture they made, staring awkwardly at Marissa staring awkwardly at them. 

“Okay,” he said. “Now, that is a classic.” 

“That’s Captain America,” Marissa squeaked out. “Captain America brings you lunch?” 

Even Steve had to smile at that. “Sam’s helped me out a lot the last couple of weeks,” he said. “Lunch is the least I can do. I owe him so much more than that.” 

“Whoa,” Marissa said. 

Sam smiled. “Come on in, guys. There’s a lounge just around the corner here where we can eat and get some coffee. Marissa, that’s where I’ll be if there are any emergencies.” 

Sam led them off to a small side room that featured a collection of mismatched furniture. They sat down on paint-spattered metal folding chairs at a wobbly Formica table to eat sandwiches and chips and drink surprisingly good coffee. Steve found that his appetite was starting to return, and he bit into the tunafish sandwich that Natasha had chosen for him with distinct enthusiasm. 

Sam asked them about what they had done all morning, and Steve let Natasha fill him in. A thought had been blossoming in the back of his mind during the drive over to the VA, and he was almost ready to share it with someone. 

After Natasha had finished recounting their errands, Sam nodded and turned to Steve. “Sounds like it wasn’t the easiest day so far.” 

“It wasn’t.” Steve selected a pickle from the little Styrofoam container that Natasha had included. “I guess I just have to keep remembering that all of this is fixing things. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since the war, it’s that healing hurts.” 

“That’s why you need friends to help you,” Sam said. “Don’t ever be afraid or ashamed to come and ask.” 

It was the best opening that Steve was going to get. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “About that . . . remember, last time I was here, we talked about me getting out of the service, and I didn’t know what else I could do? I’ve thought of something. I’ve thought of something that I want.” 

Sam and Natasha put their sandwiches down. “I’m all ears,” Sam said. 

“I want to find out what happened to Bucky,” Steve said. “He’s out there somewhere. If he were dead, they’d have found the body by now. He’s out there. I don’t know what’s happened to him, or what kind of shape he’s in. But the last thing that I remember before the hospital . . . he wasn’t the Winter Soldier. There was someone else in there. It was Bucky. I want to find out what happened to him.” 

Natasha chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “I know the people who made him. You may not like the answers you get.” 

“I don’t care.” Steve shivered. “I thought he was dead, and I was . . . well, I was living with that. This not knowing is worse. Even if he’s completely lost when I find him, at least I’d know for sure.” 

Sam nodded. “I hear that,” he said. “I’m glad you have a goal.” 

“I can do some checking around,” Natasha said. “I’m stuck in town for at least a few more days. I’ll see what I can get for you.” 

Steve smiled, and a sudden rush of warmth flooded over him. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think I could have gotten through the last couple of days without you guys.” 

“That’s why you have friends,” Sam said. “Now, as long as you’re here, can I ask you something?” 

“Anything.” 

“There’s a guy here today, his name is Art Rodriguez. He’s a great listener, and he’s done some amazing work with vets who are still on active duty, especially with readjusting to non-combat life. I have a group meeting in a few minutes, but I’d like to introduce you to him. You don’t have to do anything or have a full session instantly or anything like that. I just want you to meet him.” 

Steve nodded. “Okay.” 

“Good.” Natasha rose to her feet and stuffed her sandwich wrapper into the trash can. “I’m going to go and get things moving now. Will you be okay getting the bus home?” 

“Yeah.” 

Natasha gave Steve’s hand a squeeze and then walked out the door. Steve and Sam finished cleaning up the lunch debris. Then Steve followed Sam back to the front desk, where Marissa seemed to have recovered from the shock of seeing both Captain America and the Black Widow do something as ordinary as carry sandwiches. She managed a smile for Steve, as well as an almost audible squeak that might have been “Thank you for your service.” 

Sam glanced at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Marissa, can you give Art Rodriguez a call, please? Tell him . . . tell him there’s someone here he’ll really want to meet.”

Marissa nodded, and picked up the phone. Steve glanced at Sam, and realized that the pain in his gut was gone, without even leaving an echo. He had a clean, honest mission now, and had two trusted friends at his side. It wasn’t enough to erase the shock and grief of the last few weeks. But it was enough that he could hear Art Rodriguez’s footsteps approaching, and turn to greet him with a smile.

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! The phrase _tikkun olam_ is Hebrew, and it means “repair of the world.” _Tikkun Olam_ is an old concept – dating back to at least the third century CE – with many layers of meaning. Most of them have something to do with improving the world and helping other people. Since the 1950s in the United States, people have come to interpret it as a call for social action according to the beliefs of their particular movement. Though it’s a meaning that only came up after Steve was frozen, it’s something that I think he’d appreciate and identify with, certainly once he found out about it after being defrosted. And it’s certainly something that he needed in the aftermath of the Winter Soldier.


End file.
